“That is Ma Shue’s daughter,” said several voices at once, “the girl with a tongue of a hundred spirits.”
“On with you and stop your chattering,” cried the mandarin.
Ma Shue, the old farmer of the Valley, stood watching from the door of his rice-thatched cottage the procession winding down the mountain path.
“Where is she?” demanded the mandarin, stepping hastily from his chair.
“How greatly honoured is my poor and miserable abode,” murmured the old farmer, bowing repeatedly.
“Where is she?” demanded the mandarin again, as he peeped about the corners of the cottage and through the open door.
“I am ashamed to set before your honourable self the wretched food we live upon,” apologised the old man as he followed at the heels of the mandarin.
“Go get her,” commanded the mandarin impatiently as he peered into the cottage.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the farmer hastily, “but for the poor our food is not sufficient; how can it be tasted by——”
“What are you talking about, old coxcomb? Have you not a daughter?”